


Just the Tip(sy)

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, Banter, Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, First Time, Just the Tip, M/M, Making Out, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Premature Ejaculation, but theyre in love, theyre idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: "Have you ever...you know," Aziraphale asks and Crowley glances up from where he’s busy trying very hard not to spill any wine. "Had sex?"**In which Aziraphale and Crowley (gasp) have sex.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 526





	Just the Tip(sy)

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt "drunk sex" but also the prompt "just the tip" snuck in there
> 
> idk what this even is. forgive me
> 
> Happy Valentine's day

_1825_

"Have you ever...you know," Aziraphale asks from his typical perch at his desk. Crowley glances up from where he’s busy trying very hard not to spill any wine. "Had sex?"

He knocks the bottle into the lip of his cup and sloshes some wine onto the table anyway. "What? Sex? What has you asking about sex?"

Aziraphale sips at his drink and smacks his lips. He’s drunk. Drunk as a skunk. Crowley’s skunk drunk too or he would have changed the sex subject immediately. There’s been about a couple centuries now where things between him and Aziraphale have been decidedly good. The angel knows about the soft mushy feelings Crowley has. They don’t talk about it. Crowley tried once around about 1412 and Aziraphale pretended that he couldn’t hear him over the sounds of the minstrels. 

Except after Crowley’s little attempted confession, Aziraphale started to _linger._ The carefully curated distance between them started to shrink and, for the first half dozen years or so, Crowley was certain he was imagining things, but then Aziraphale had sat beside him at supper, so close that their thighs pressed together. He’d barely breathed the whole night. A year later, when their hands brushed as they sat together at some performance or other, Aziraphale didn’t pull away. Instead, he curled his pinky finger around Crowley’s and neither moved for a very long time.

They don't kiss or say the words, but Crowley buys Aziraphale chocolates and takes him to the theater and he feels _understood_ and _accepted_ and sometimes, when Aziraphale touches him, it lingers, and the look in Aziraphale’s eyes _means_ something and that is more than enough. 

"I was reading some pornography earlier today," Aziraphale begins as Crowley slops himself back onto the couch and pushes away the immediate response to Aziraphale talking about sex which mostly involves ill-timed erections and painful heart palpitations.

"You read pornography?"

"Everybody reads pornography. Do keep up. That’s not the point."

"What’s the point?"

"The _point_ is that I was thinking about sex and how I’ve never had it."

Crowley weaves his head back and forth as if to say _and so_?

"Have you had sex?"

Crowley practically gargles the wine in his mouth. "No! Why would I be having sex with humans?"

"Well, some demons do that."

"Succubi! Am I a bloody succubus, Aziraphale? Have you ever seen me suck anything?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Going around sucking out people’s souls out through their willies?”

Aziraphale’s mouth clicks shut. Then he dissolves into laughter.

"Really, dear boy. Willy? There are many a finer word for the appendage."

Crowley downs another large swallow of wine. He’s too drunk to be talking about genitals. "Would you have me call it a cock?"

“Cock is no fun,” Aziraphale pouts. He’s having Crowley on. Crowley knows it. “Tallywhacker has a nice ring to it.”

“No,” Crowley warns.

Aziraphale performatively taps his mouth. “Truncheon is often used in the literature.”

“What literature are you reading?”

“What about steed?” Aziraphale asks happily, making Crowley groan and finish his wine.

“I absolutely hate you.”

"I think we should kiss," Aziraphale says without any warning just as Crowley is about to stand and refill his cup.

Crowley drops his empty wine glass on the floor. It knows better than to break, but its a near thing because Crowley’s brain is breaking.

"I’ve not done it—done the kissing before," Aziraphale slurs. “And I’d quite like to. With you. And in general. But preferably with you."

Crowley blinks at him several times but the bookshop stays a rummy gold, all the candles lit and turning Aziraphale a serene yellow. 

"Yeah, alright," Crowley says which is not at all how he thought he’d be initiating a first kiss with Aziraphale. But this is a hell of an opportunity.

He drops back on the sofa and there’s a careful swaying in, like neither of them are quite sure how to go about this, and then Aziraphale sucks in a deep breath and closes the gap, pressing their mouths together. The first kiss is firm, more of a peck. Crowley doesn't even have a chance to shut his eyes before Aziraphale is going in for a second kiss, this time softer.

He tastes like wine and sparks and Crowley is only slightly ashamed to admit he clings to him as their mouths slide together, open and wet. They’re drunk. Fuck, very drunk and have no idea how to kiss except from what theyve seen humans do and by chasing what feels good. Their tongues press together messily and it might be disgusting. It would be if it didn’t send Crowley’s stomach spinning with heat.

“I think we’re bad at this,” Aziraphale gasps when they break apart.

“Don’t care. Do it again,” Crowley says, pulling Aziraphale back against him.

Aziraphale's hand tangles in the short hair at the nape of his neck, sending goosebumps down his spine. His teeth nip at Aziraphale's mouth and the angel makes a little surprised sound that Crowley likes so much. It's beautiful. It's like music. He presses his palm to Aziraphale's chest and slips his tongue back into his mouth and that feels good too. It feels even better when Aziraphale moans and sucks on his tongue, a sensation that makes Crowley unbearably aware of the situation in his trousers.

The hand in his hair slides up, sinking into the slightly longer strands on top and tugging lightly as they continue to trade kisses. Kissing Aziraphale is like undertow, like the tide and without noticing Crowley is underwater before he can find his feet. He pushes closer to Aziraphale, pressing him back onto the sofa. There isn’t enough room but Crowley can fix that. With a quick thought, the sofa lengthens. Crowley is drunk and sloppy and the sofa shoots out so far it knocks into the wall. Aziraphale giggles beneath him and, in that undertow, Crowley giggles too. They’re laughing and kissing and trying to get their legs to untangle just right. The couch is too narrow so Crowley wastes another burst of power to widen it as well as they roll over so Aziraphale is on top of him, breaking the kiss. Crowley grips his hips, amazed to even be touching him. 

“Was that a you-miracle or a me-miracle?” Aziraphale asks, breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, just a thin ring of vibrant blue surrounding the black.

“I don't do miracles, I'm a demon. I do...something else. 

“Mmm...demonacles?” Aziraphale asks before leaning down to kiss his jaw.

Crowley gasps at the sensation but he can’t let that question go unremarked upon. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Aziraphale catches his mouth again and the buttons of their waistcoats slide against each other, catching and knocking and slipping over the velvet fabric. Like this, with their bodies pressed together from head to toe, he can feel when Aziraphale moans. It echoes in his ribcage, reverberating like the beat of a drum.

His lips are getting sore from kissing. The slight burn of Aziraphale’s stubble makes his skin sting but he doesn’t want to stop. It all feels so good here in this swimmy, drunk space as Aziraphale clutches at him. Crowley breaks their messy kiss to latch onto Aziraphale’s neck, he’s always wanted to kiss Aziraphale’s neck. Might as well do it now. He rips off his cravat and tosses it away.

Just as he begins to scrape his teeth over the delicious fold of Aziraphale’s neck he feels Azirphale rock down into him, a little whine escaping his mouth. With some strange instinct of his corporation, Crowley meets the movement with one of his own, grasping his hips and pulling Aziraphale down against him.

That’s when he feels how damp Aziraphale is through his trousers and Crowley’s hips hitch up into him, pressing his hard cock against what he now knows is Aziraphale’s wet cunt. Aziraphale moans and twists his hands into the fabric of Crowley’s waistcoat and grinding against him so hard it almost hurts. There’s not much to grasp, Crowley wears his clothes far too tight and the fabric rends under his strength. 

Crowley could care less. He sends the ruined waistcoat off to sit forgotten wherever Aziraphale’s cravat has gone and grabs the angel’s hips, chasing the building bliss in his gut and loving the answering look of ecstasy on Aziraphale’s face when he pulls him down against him.

They rock together and Aziraphale’s so wet he’s nearly soaked both their trousers through. Tearing down Aziraphale’s high collar, Crowley buries his face in Aziraphale’s neck and begins to press sucking kisses to his pulse. The angel starts to make little desperate sounds. Little abortive gasps in Crowley’s ear.

"More, Crowley," he demands. "Can we take off our trousers?"

Crowley's bites off a moan into his skin and sends their trousers off to puddle with their other clothes. He realizes then that he didn't think it through because Aziraphale is just there. He’s dripping and wet and so very hot. Crowley's body trembles with the desire to flip them over and rut against him like some animal. Except this is the angel that took two hundred years to touch his hand and they’re snogging and humping on the couch and that’s good, but Crowley’s not just going to fuck him.

Aziraphale's hands slip under his neck and he leans forward to kiss him as he continues to rub himself off on Crowley’s cock, the wet lips of his pussy sliding on either side of his shaft.

“I want to have sex,” Aziraphale says against his mouth. He’s still wearing his shirt and the tails drag over Crowley’s hips, tickling and tantalizing, and Crowley might lose his mind at this rate.

“But...can we go slow?” he adds.

Crowley makes an incomprehensible noise. He has no idea what slow means. If a couple hundred years to hold hands and then another to work up to this, he has no idea how long he’ll be on this couch with Aziraphale touching him, but he’s fine with that. 

Aziraphale rises up and sheds his shirt, revealing soft arms and— 

“Hng, let me suck your tits,” Crowley says, reaching up between Aziraphale’s shoulder blades to urge him down, to get that chest closer to his mouth.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale protests. “Don’t say _tits_.”

“Bosoms and breasts and _tits_ ,” Crowley says with a grin and tries to pull him again.

When Aziraphale refuses to bring the nipples to his mouth, Crowley improvises and sits up, sucking on the first one he can reach. Aziraphale’s hand shoots into his hair and maybe Crowley gets a little excited because they end up toppling over and it’s only a quick thought to extend the sofa further out into the bookshop that prevents them from falling onto the rug. At this point the sofa is practically a bed with how many miracles it’s undergone.

Aziraphale lets out a loud oof when Crowley’s chin hits his sternum and then laughs. “Another denomacle,” Aziraphale declares.

“You’re not allowed to call them that,” he says, but he’s already rising up on his knees so he can spread Aziraphale’s legs and get a good look.

He is gorgeous and dripping and Crowley’s stomach clutches as he carefully touches Aziraphale’s sex, feeling the coarse hair under his fingers, before spreading him open with his thumb. Everything about the moment is tight and dizzying and Crowley wants to laugh again, as giddy as he is reverent.

“You sure?” Crowley asks again. There are so many things they could do. That he would love to do. Get his mouth on Aziraphale, fuck him with his hand. 

Aziraphale hooks his leg around Crowley’s hip. “Yes. Maybe just the tip at first?”

“Right. Yeah. Just the tip.”

“For now.”

Crowley swallows and takes himself in hand. He runs the head of his cock over Aziraphale’s slit and presses inside just an inch. Aziraphale gasps, body going tight.

Crowley grasps the back of the sofa and breathes through his teeth, still holding the base of his cock with one hand to prevent himself from slamming all the way inside. His thighs are trembling with effort. Aziraphale feels so good. Hot and velvety around him. And tight. And it’s Aziraphale and even through the fizz of alcohol, that knowledge makes Crowley burn.

He uses his hand to push in and out of Aziraphale's wet clamping cunt. If he used his hips he’d be no use. Aziraphale's hands fly over his head and grip the discarded blanket. The sight of his cock barely breaching Aziraphale's body is doing a number on his head.

He pulls back until the head catches and they both gasp at the intense sensation, then pushes in, careful not to go too deep. Aziraphale arches his back and moans, eyes shut tight, lips parted. Crowley repeats the slow push and pull, barely restraining himself. He can feel both their bodies trembling as he does it again and again, pushing the head of his cock just inside Aziraphale's body. It’s almost as if he’s wanking into Aziraphale's cunt. He shuts his eyes tight and grips the base of his dick, thankful for the wine dulling some of the sensations and preventing him from spilling all over Aziraphale before he can even fuck him properly.

"You feel exquisite," Aziraphale says when Crowley takes another moment to breathe.

"So do you," Crowley says. He releases the back of the couch and smoothes his hand down Aziraphale's thigh. The hair tickles his palm, soft and rough all at once.

“Are you inside me yet?” Aziraphale asks, hooking one leg around Crowley’s calf.

Crowley shakes his head, not trusting his voice as he pulls out again. His balls are growing tight. 

“You can,” Aziraphale says, raising his hips and Crowley can’t help it. He sinks all the way in to the hilt and several things happen at once. The rising heat of everything they’ve done, the punched out _sound_ Aziraphale makes, and the complete pleasure of being inside him sends Crowley over the edge before he can even move. He spills inside Aziraphale with a groan, collapsing on top of him and breathing hard.

“Crowley, that was…”

“Shit,” he swears. “You didn’t even—”

Aziraphale grabs him tight before he can pull away. “One moment, my dear. I do believe orgasm isn’t the _only_ intent of such an activity. Acting as if it were is entirely reductive”

The hands on his back run up and down his spine. “Intimacy and the expression of love is another primary goal I believe.”

Crowley can’t believe his ears but he’s not drunk anymore. Not really. 

It’s Aziraphale that rearranges them, snapping his fingers and kissing him gently. “That miracle is on me. Why don’t you rest and we can try again in the morning?”

Crowley thinks that sounds nice. He thinks about getting his hands between Aziraphale’s legs when he’s sober, maybe his mouth, maybe changing things up so Aziraphale’s the one spreading _Crowley’s legs_ …

Crowley whines. “Fuck me.”

“Only if you’re very good,” Aziraphale says and Crowley falls asleep thinking about _that_ which is also, if he says so himself _, very good_ indeed.


End file.
